Chapter 8 Tristan
Tristan
The ridge is quiet this morning as I drive the back road to check for storm washouts. I tell myself that’s all I’m doing… but I know better. I know exactly where this road leads—and who’s at the end of it.
When I round the final bend, my jaw tightens.
There’s a white truck parked at the Voss gate with Kettering Inspections stamped across the side.
A man stands near the porch, clipboard in hand, talking to Raine. She’s wearing jeans, a pale blue shirt knotted at the waist, her hair pulled up in a loose twist that catches the sun. She looks calm. Comfortable. Like she belongs here.
I hate that it fits her.
I hate that I’m thinking about how it fits her.
The man—mid-thirties, clean-cut, easy posture—laughs at something she says. He’s standing too close to her. I don’t like it.
I pull over on the shoulder, the engine idling.
It’s none of my business.
I tell myself that three times, but my fingers still tighten on the steering wheel.
She shouldn’t be trusting strangers out here. Not when she barely knows the land. Not when half the men in town still think the Voss Estate is cursed.
And not when I know exactly what kind of people are willing to take advantage of women who look like her—beautiful, alone, determined, and too proud to ask for help.
I keep my eyes on him as I do some research and make some phone calls. I learn his name is Owen Kettering, a local inspector who works for Kettering Inspections.
When he crouches near the porch steps, pointing something out to her, the urge to step out of the truck nearly wins.
Instead, I roll down the window, inhaling fresh air, trying to calm down.
But my eyes don’t leave them.
Raine kneels beside him, squinting at a cracked section of the railing. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her laugh soft and unguarded. It shouldn’t hit me like it does—sharp, unfamiliar, burning in my chest.
Then she looks toward the ridge road. Straight at me.
For a second, I think she sees me.
Then her eyes shift past the truck, scanning the tree line before her attention returns to the inspector.
I stay there a moment longer. Long enough to feel the heat crawl up my neck before I put the truck in gear and drive off.
By the time I reach the distillery, I’ve already called the inspection office.
Just a quick question about who’s working the ridge. Safety concerns, I tell myself.
But when they mention her name, my pulse trips anyway.
Calder’s already in the office when I walk in, leaning against my desk like he owns it.
“You’re late,” he says, watching me too closely.
“Had to check the back road.”
“Which one?”
I give him a look that should end the conversation. It doesn’t.
He grins. “You mean the one that just happens to run past the Voss property?”
“I said I checked the road.”
“Right,” he says easily, pushing off the desk. “Because potholes are such a turn-on.”
I don’t rise to it. Not out loud. But something in my face must give me away, because his grin fades.
“You’re playing with fire, Tristan.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m serious. Whatever game this is—scaring her, watching her, whatever the hell you think you’re doing—don’t.”
“I’m not playing games.”
He arches a brow. “No? Then why do you look like a man who just lost one?”
I glare at him until he raises his hands in surrender and leaves.
When the door shuts, I drop into my chair, staring at the open ledger on the desk without seeing a word. The faint hum of the distillery fills the silence, steady and mindless.
But in my head, I still see her—kneeling on the porch, sunlight in her hair, talking to someone who isn’t me.
The valley has always been mine. The ridge, the water, the land.
Now she’s here, filling the quiet I’ve spent years perfecting.
And no matter how much I tell myself it’s about control, I know the truth.
It’s not the land I can’t stand losing.
It’s her.
A woman I barely know who haunts me.